


The Price for the Saviour of Humanity

by TheDarkMetalLady



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Torture, graphic depictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 10:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21390868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkMetalLady/pseuds/TheDarkMetalLady
Summary: Ralathor had succeeded in hiding the kingdom’s last hope somewhere far from the interdimensional wrath of Zargothrax, but it came at a price.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	The Price for the Saviour of Humanity

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not for the faint of heart. Heed the tags and warnings.
> 
> I do not own the Gloryhammer characters. Please note that this story is about the _characters represented by the band_ and **not** about the band members themselves.

The cell he was in was not an inviting place, even for a hermit who had spent most of his ten century immortal lifespan in cave systems beneath the mighty cities of the intergalactic Kingdom of Fife. 

It was dark, silent, cold. The air smelt putrid and felt moist. Had there been any source of light, he expected he would have seen plenty of mold covering the various surfaces of the dungeon. The chains against his wrists felt rusty, though not rusty enough to impede with their anti-magical properties or for him to break free of them. The cuffs bit sharply into his thin wrists, forcing him to remain upright even when his body demanded nothing more than to be able to sit down, to lay down, to rest. He did his best to keep his balance, doing whatever remained in his power to prevent his bare and slashed-open back from coming into contact with the rough and more-than-likely contaminated stone brick wall behind him.

He knew what was coming next; it was a cycle, the same cycle every time since he got here. (He didn’t know how long ago that had been.)

Sure enough, there was the slam of a heavy door in the distance, followed by slowly approaching heavy footsteps, as if the person approaching had all the time in the world. A faint red light washed over the dungeons, not enough to show more detail than was necessary. Then, a silhouette appeared at the cell door and blocked out part of the light. The cell lock clicked like a neck being snapped, and the hinges of the cell door screeched as if they too were in pain. 

Ralathor closed his eyes; he didn’t need to see to know who it was.

“Are you ready to talk?” came the voice of the captor, betraying his delight at the hermit’s suffering. 

“Go die in a fire,” the prisoner spat out, a cough wracking his body as soon as the words left his throat. He spat out a mouthful of blood to the ground, hoping at least some of it landed on the fancy black boots in front of him. 

It only made his tormentor laugh darkly. 

“That’s the most creativity you’ve got, my dear brother? You’d think that ten centuries of solitude would have at least given you time to come up with better threats.”

Ralathor lifted his head and opened his eyes, grey gaze meeting red. “You’d think ten centuries of being frozen in ice would teach you to chill out.”

A sharp smack echoed in the small stone cell, almost drowning out the deep growl of the dark sorcerer. Half of Ralathor’s face ignited in pain, for the gloved hand was no more forgiving than a brick.

_ “Where. Is. McFife.”  _

“I’ll never tell you.” Once more, the hermit spat out some blood that had began to pool from a fresh injury on his tongue after the slap. He got slight satisfaction from the way it landed against black boots and stained them.

“Oh, but you will, even if I need to kill you and rip the information out of your remains with necromancy.”

“You can’t kill me,” the hermit said, unwavering against the threats.

Zargothrax smirked, stepping closer so that he was face to face with the restrained prisoner. “Perhaps. But I can make you wish for something as simple as death.”

A black-gloved hand reached up. A palm pressed against the hermit’s forehead. A magical spell was formed.

Ralathor screamed. 

**Author's Note:**

> Want to see some of my other works or request a story? Check out my tumblr [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/) and my prompt and request rules [here](https://thedarkmetallady.tumblr.com/PromptAndRequestRules).


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